I'd never thought I would fall for you
by The-only-other-timelord
Summary: Matt smith/ oc , come on its matt smith how could I resist. Sorry short chapters also if anyone wants to help create my new fanfic contact me it will also be about matt smith but as the doctor
1. So it begins

"Oh, come on, Darling. Don't be angry at me, it was an accident." Matt said, running his fingers through his hair, where his fringe immediately flopped back down.  
"Kitchen paper, kitchen paper." I requested, snapping my fingers, observing the damage his spilt coke had made to my t-shirt. "And stop calling me Darling, I don't call you Smith."  
He thrust an obnoxiously large wad of kitchen paper into my arms.  
"Maybe you should. We could be Darling and Smith, crime fighting extraordinaire. The most notorious housemates in London." He gestured his hands with unnecessary flair. I'm not even sure what he was gesturing at. Or why. I stopped patting my t-shirt dry and raised my eyebrows at him.  
"Oh, to be in your head must be such an adventure, Matt."  
"An everyday treat, Kitty. Eh? Eh?" He nudged my purposefully with his abnormally pointy elbows, his eyebrows raising. He exaggerated my name, like a little kid proud of the things he had learned at school today.  
"God, it'll have to do." I gave up trying to dry my t-shirt and lifted Matt's wrist to check the time, picking up my ukulele bag. "Righty-ho, I'd best be off."  
I started heading down the hallway, Matt at my heels while he questioned me.  
"Why do you have to go so early? You're not even on until 8."  
"I have to set up."  
"What time do you want me to be there?"  
"Whenever you want."  
I opened the front door, and turned back to Matt.  
"I'll see you at 7," He said, his smile crinkling his eyes. "I'll buy you a beer."  
He leaned down and kissed me on the cheek. And it is at this point I'll tell you how I adore Matt Smith. And if you've ever liked someone so much that you think you can't keep it in, you'll understand that semi-nauseating ache when they give you some sort of sweet affection. it's mental and physical.  
It's physically aches your stomach ever so slightly.  
And it mentally aches your heart. It's achy to know that they have no idea what a kiss on the cheek means to you.  
"Don't forget to lock the door, Matt."  
"Do I ever forget to lock the door, Kit?" He defended.  
"Yes. See you later."

As I began walking down the street, trailing my fingers across railings, I thought about how much I had to let this out. I can't hide it from him forever, and I can't lock it away like it doesn't exist and doesn't keep me up at night.  
Sometimes the nights are the worst times for resisting Matt. The urge to creep across the hall into his room and crawl into bed with him is overwhelming. Sometimes he crawls into my bed. After the fifth beer or so.  
Besides, the radiator has been on the blink in my room for over a month.

And it must be warm over there.

Across the hall to Matt's room.


	2. Apollo

I could barely see a thing from my little stool on the little stage. This three-floor pub that I'd known since before I was legal. Ground floor: Bar and seating. Downstairs: Stage and seating. Upstairs: Pool tables.  
But it was my place. The Hub was my pub of choice, my only social network. Apart from Matt, of course. It was where I felt home, where I felt immeasurable comfort, where I'd been drunk and been drinking, where I had never needed ID because the manager had known me all my life.  
And in retrospect, this was where my dreams had blossomed. I had always wanted to play music. Guitar, ukulele, piano or just sing my soul out. And the pub was my first gig. I'd had so many since, but never more than a city away. I always came back here.  
And in The Hub, playing my music, I always felt like I was spinning in the sun in a field and feeling every positive emotion possible, even though all the while I was in this dark, fairy-lit basement, a double-vodka and redbull at my ankle.  
That was how at home and happy I was.  
And he would never know it, but Matt had made this happen for me. Just by existing, and living with me, he had inspired me. He had become my Apollo, who reigned over muses. Yeah, a male muse. Every song I had written since we'd moved into our house was, in one way or another, about him. He gave me feeling, made me feel grace.

That night I couldn't see for the lights on my face. I had no idea if Matt was watching me play. I always kind of liked to think of him, standing so close to the stage, listening from when I sat down until I walked off, appreciating, understanding. Because sometimes I wondered if I wasn't obvious or if he was just slow on the uptake.

"...I'll write you songs with your name on, and wait for all the orbits in your head to align. Oh the stars wonʼt shine until youʼre mine. No the stars wonʼt shine until youʼre mine.." I finished, barely feather-stroking the last C chord, the briefest smile to whomever was looking. I stood up and thanked Harvey, my pianist before jumping down onto the beer-sticky floor.  
And then suddenly I felt Matt's palm in mine, dragging me.  
"I need to put my ukulele away..." I half-protested. Wherever he wanted to take me, I would have followed. I passed it instead to Harvey with a shrug on my shoulders.  
"I have a drink waiting at the bar for you. And here," He put a Marlboro in front of my face. "For you."  
I could tell he was past his 'in between drunk' stage. I fitted my hand more comfortably in his. And god, it was so very comfortable in his big, warm palm. A haven of safety to my own chilly fingers.  
After thrusting a Budweiser in my free hand, we stumbled outside. He lit my cigarette, and for reason beyond me, he grinned this sweet smile that shrunk his eyes ever so slightly.  
"What are you smiling at, Smith?" He tapped my elbow and laughed.  
"See, it'll catch on. Smith and Darling." He inhaled the July air through his teeth and said, "I'm smiling because I liked watching you tonight. Well done, Darling."  
He studied me for a few moments, a crooked smile and contemplative look in his narrowed eyes. Without realising, I studied him back, wondering in the furthest crevice of my mind what he was thinking and feeling. In a moment flat, I didn't want to be at the pub with people. I wanted to be home. With Matt. Watching Teleshopping, A Place In The Sun or something equally unimportant on the sofa, my head in his lap like it sometimes was at 2am.

And that's how I always wanted it to be.  
On the sofa watching crap TV. Just Matt and me.


	3. The house and the Beginnings

I'd been living with Matt for 5 months before I even realized that the swings of acid that I felt in my midsection were something other than a stomach disorder. Frankly, in retrospect I should have known - always that abdominal typhoon whenever he presented me with a glass of wine and a saccharine, handsome and absolutely adorable smile while we settled down on our tiny sofa in our tiny living room to watch DVDs on a mid-week evening.

We didn't know each other when we moved in. It was a friend of a friend of a friend, word of mouth, "desperately need a housemate" scenario that ended with us finding our little house. It was three storey, but so tiny and quaint. Perfect size for two people who don't completely hate each other. There was a kitchen downstairs, with magnificent wood-framed french doors that opened onto a cracked and fractured patio and a small expanse of grass, a plum tree in the far corner. Matt set up a blanket under that tree on the morning of my 21st birthday, strewn with punnets of strawberries and raspberries, two cups of tea, a bottle of early morning champagne and a sweet little jar with fresh hand-picked jasmine flowers. Even Sushi, my cat, was there batting at Matt's sleeve in a 'Happy Birthday, Kit' kind of way. We ended up drenched in dew, but I didn't care. It was so lovely, I nearly cried.

And there was our living room. Barely an inch to spare. Two bookshelves up to the ceiling took up one wall. The mantelpiece above the fireplace housed photo frames. A television strategically placed in front of the worn in yet oh-so-snuggly sofa, always with a blanket over the back, because it was permanently cold in there. Or maybe we just thought it was.

Thinking back, I can remember walking along that street a thousand times, passing our house. I never would have imagined or dreamed what journeys that house would take me on, or what I would find in its cosy depths.  
We kind of just fitted in there, like we belonged. Just him, my cat and me.

Then, week after week, my denials began to crumble. Of course I loved him. How did I not realize? I found myself giddy whenever he caught my eye and winked. I adored his wit, his taste in things, and always his unbearable coolness. Every time he laughed or smiled, I did too. Not because something was funny, but because I loved the way he looked when he did - I found so much joy in his happiness.  
When I caved and stopped dismissing the pangs of adoration, I panicked. Totally.


	4. Watchmen

I slung my arm, less than fluidly, over Matt's shoulders, as we shared a song together in the middle of the street.  
"And you better start swimming or you'll sink like a stone. For the times they are a' changin'.." Matt trailed off, but I continued with a slightly hushed "Come writers and critics, who prophesize with your pen..." Matt smirked at me.  
"What?" I questioned, with more demand to my tone than I intended.  
"How is it that you always know all the lyrics to that kind of stuff?" It was a genuine inquiry, and after a few seconds of muddled thought, I replied, mirroring his shrug.  
"Gotta love Bob, Matthew."  
I pushed half of my weight onto him, melting my side into his - the casual effect of more than a few rum and cokes. He looked down at me, his laughter diminishing but the smile ever-present as he looped his arm round my waist in an instinctive bid to support me.  
Despite the late hour and the many drinks I'd had, I could stand perfectly well on my own, give or take a few sways, and was very aware of the weight and warmth of his arm coiled round me. I remember feeling vaguely conscious of the strange pride in the fact that anyone who walked past the pub as we stood, numb to the cold, fag in hand, millimetre close, would assume we were a real couple. At the very least dating.  
Matt brought his free hand up to tap the tip of my nose with his finger.  
"One more drink, and then home? We'll put a movie on and crack a bottle open." He smiled and, using his arm around my waist as leverage, jiggled me on the spot. At that moment, it was alright to laugh, so I did so to cover the grin that I was barely suppressing at the thought of our usual post-pub plan. We'd get home, and while I set up a DVD from our collection and settled myself on the sofa, Matt would go downstairs to the kitchen, returning swiftly with a bottle of red or gin and chilled tonic - it varied - and two of the largest glasses we owned. Nothing put a bigger smile on my face.

Forty minutes later, there we were. Matt edged into the room, kicking the door shut with his foot, his hands occupied with, tonight, a bottle of merlot. It looked expensive. When we went for our weekly shop, our routine always included a trip to the wine isle, and as a rule we never looked at prices. Where red wine was concerned, cheap was never good. Fancy and artistic labels on the other, were generally a good indication of quality.  
On the ivory label of this bottle, a cartoon-esque dog balanced a ball on its nose. I reached one arm out to take the bottle, the other patting the sofa beside me as a silent request for sofa company.  
"What are we watching, Darling?" Matt inquired, dropping lazily into the sofa cushions.  
"It's Kit. After nine months, Matt, it's .. uhh.. Watchmen. That Bob Dylan song got me thinking about it. It's on the soundtrack." I took a larger than average sip of wine, and a larger than average deep breath, because as we switched off the lamps and settled in for the film, I gave myself a very firm mental slap and for the first time, scooched over to Matt's side of the sofa, and rested my head onto his shoulder, where the smell of his laundry powder and aftershave mingled with the warmth of his shirt and it really was like sensing happiness.  
And then it was even more wonderful, because a few minutes later he shifted his arm around and wedged it between my shoulders and the back of the sofa, wriggling and pulling me about until I fit comfortably against him, on our sides, my back against his chest, an extra arm around me added.  
"Do you want a pillow there?" He whispered.  
"No," I smiled. "I'm good."


	5. Film abandoned

Well before mid-way through the film, it had been long forgotten. As I recall, through some wine-induced, warm haze, the gentle tickling of Matt's hair on my neck got the better of me and I dissolved into a giggling mess. Eventually he'd twigged onto what was amusing me so much.  
"Kit, are you ticklish?" He questioned, seeming genuinely surprised. "I can't believe I never knew that."  
I pressed my lips between my teeth, so desperate not to let slip a weakness, or let a sigh escape as Matt trailed a couple of fingertips down my shoulder, arm, ribs and oh god my waist. The contact was burning.  
I knew what was coming - a full-blown tickle attack - but if I squeezed my eyes shut tight and willed time to slow down, I could revel in the touch and pretend it was an entirely different scenario. Something romantic, a first time, some touching with something akin to ersatz, delirious, spur of the moment, merlot fuelled love.  
But, as life will teach one, time will never stop. Within seconds, I was squealing and wriggling, trapped under Matt's arms as he digged and jabbed into my stomach. He was laughing - his eyes crinkled and slightly wild with amusement.  
"Matt, please, stop it!" I gasped between shrill, uncontrollable giggles. "Look, we're missing the film."  
He sighed heavily, finally halting his onslaught and raised his lovely head to the TV.  
"Look, Kit. Frankly, I haven't a clue what's going on in this film and tormenting you is so very much higher on my Good Things list." He raised himself up and reached for the bottle of wine, pulling the cork out and gesturing it to me. I bought up my glass from the coaster on the carpet for him to fill.  
"How about," He began, whilst filling his own glass and taking a long swig, "a game."  
"What king of game? A drinking game?" Matt smiled a crooked and very alluring smile, eyes drilling into me and shrugged his shoulders beneath that ragged, threadbare jumper that hung on him so wonderfully well.  
"Yeah. Like 'Never have I Ever'." I groaned. That game had gotten me fairly paralytic in the past - presumably because I had done a lot more questionable things than the standard bystander would guess.  
Matt let out a low 'huh' and narrowed his eyes.  
"Is that the memory of regret I hear, Darling?" And then he leaned forward towards me, the corner of his lip tugging upward in a deliciously tempting smile - the kind that, when flashed, you would deny nothing to the person creating it. His voice lowered, challenging and articulated: "Or do you not want me to find out that you're secretly a very bad girl?"  
I sucked in a silent breath, praying he wouldn't notice the flush that had crept its way onto my cheeks at his tone, and the words 'very bad girl' echoing in my skull.  
Desperate to keep my cool factor at ten, I raised my glass to my lips, took a long sip and said, with more firmness than I thought I could muster, "You're on, Smith."

By this point, I had clocked up a count of every touch, trail of fingers, every look - calculated the colours in his eyes - every smile and nudge of his elbow since we had first settled onto the sofa that evening.  
I knew the number because each time, my heart, quite generically, skipped a beat.  
By the start of our little drinking game, my heart had skipped so many beats, I'd made a rhythm.


	6. Dare

When Matt had suggested this game, I'll admit I had panicked. What if he asked me something... incriminating? Something that gave me away? I had been victimised in this game before. Admittedly only by a close friend, who had thought I wasn't drunk enough, and so asked questions like 'never have I ever had a name beginning with K'.

I didn't think, if asked whatever, I could lie to Matt. Equal to loving him, he was my friend. And I, Kit, as a rule do not lie to friends. So, in a brief moment, giving myself rules and justification, said to myself 'I can always blame it on the vodka/beer/wine/feeling like a teenager all over again, because I won't lie to Matthew'.

So I was going for this game, head-on. There was, somewhere very close to the surface, this erratic awareness of excitement, nerves, anticipation - Because, as a flash, I recalled a game of truth or dare at a house party when I was 18. It was 2am, and there was circle of us, cross-legged on the floor of my friend's living room. The stragglers of a party. There was this guy in a circle of maybe 8 people. I'd seen him at college (of course I'd left by that point) I'd clocked him then, and at the party we sort of chatted, bumped into each other and then there we were, in this circle and I kind of hoped that when I said after a quick slug of whiskey, 'dare', that someone would dare me to kiss him. Someone did and he and I did, but it was just the exhilarating precursor that I remembered then, when Matt was smiling at me, the lure and weird sense of danger. Not real, instinctual danger, but the lasting kind that could be a warning of 'this is such a bad idea'. And then I ceased to care.

Matt shifted us both, with some amount of giggling on my part, to being cross-legged, knee to knee in the middle of the sofa, thrusting my glass of newly topped up wine into my hand. Matt propped his elbow, his own drink in hand, on his knee. Suddenly he was surveying me. I think.

"You go first." He urged. I thought for a moment, surveying him myself.

"Never have I ever... had a _very_ lovely housemate.." I grinned, raising my glass and damning myself for being so brave. But damned I was when he gave a low laugh and then the clink of glass on glass as he agreed. We both took a long swig.

"Never have I ever..." There was an uncomfortably long moment of contemplation. Or, it would have been if Matt's face hadn't been half a meter from my own, and if that wasn't comfort, I don't know what is. I hadn't realised I was smiling until his eyes flicked down to my lips and he smiled too, the little glimpse of those teeth just behind curled lips. His eyebrows dipped and then... "Actually, I prefer truth or dare. Your turn, Kit. Truth or dare?" It came out so fast, the question barely registered, and I picked the last thing I heard in that blur. Dare. I told him so.

"Dare." We both, again, took a long drink. Matt reached out to set his glass on the coffee table (not that we ever drank coffee in there) and pulled on my curled knees until they were resting, propped, flush against the tops of his. He never broke his eye-contact, and I didn't dare look away, lest I miss one of the eyelash flickers or the quiver of his lip as he gave a deep exhale. And then, like a celestial kick-in-the-stomach of serendipity:

"Ever wondered, Kit? I have." A breath. "Dare you to kiss me."

And I did. As if I had always, for all 22 years, been waiting for that command. Fell forward so smoothly, as if magnetised, until there was the soft pillow of Matt's lips against mine.

Damp from wine, warm from blood.

Hands came up my arms, shoulders, then bracketing my face, the first grind of mouth on mouth, and then I stopped thinking.


	7. Horrifically Bad Idea

I was being tugged and pulled and manoeuvred, Matt's fingers digging into the backs of my knees to drag them up and over his. All I could do was hang on for dear life by gaining some purchase on a shoulder, the soft upward flick of hair at the back of his head, and revel in every tiny lick and pull of lips. I found myself, with sudden distress, desperately needy. But Matt was right here. Closer and more real, solid and immediate than ever. What if I stopped kissing and it never started again? I'd never forgive myself for letting go of that shoulder.  
My eyes clenched shut so tight I saw white spots burst across the dark of my eyelid, and willed my mind to settle down. It was not a time for over-activity - that's when 'buts' and 'what-ifs'  
find their way in and take root.

Oh god, we live together for heaven's sake. we'll never be able to look each other in the eye again.

Fuck. Wine.

Is he only doing this to see what it's like?

No, ssh, this is good. Horrifically bad idea kind of good.

"Matt." Hesitantly pulling away enough to speak. Oh god, there was Matt's arm coiled round my waist. When did I end up on his lap? I hope he never stops nibbling there... "Um, why? What are you doing?"  
The arm tightened, fingers running soft courses over my dress, throwing away any coherency I'd mustered to let the bubbles of a whimper arise in my throat. Matt himself groaned and with a soft thud, his forehead came to rest on my shoulder.  
"God, Kit. I don't know." as he spoke, I could feel the fragile scrape of his lips against my collarbone. "I'm really very sorry."

"It's okay..."

"Maybe it's time for bed. Though not together of course." The last trail of those fingertips over the curve of my shoulder before he raised his head, a chaste kiss to my cheek and I was being gently tipped off his lap.  
He stood. I didn't want to look. "See you tomorrow, Kitty."

"It is tomorrow." A huff of laughter sounded from the doorway.

"Later, then."

A moment.

Then the soft creaks of the wooden staircase, ascending, distancing.

The firm push, scrape of his bedroom door, and metallic twist of the brass handle.  
I gave myself a moment to remember how to breathe, and made my own solitary march up the stairs.  
I put a hand on the radiator by my bedroom window. Stone cold. Still broken. And I wished more than ever for another taste, to be across the hallway, in the warmth of Matt's room, Matt's blankets, Matt's kiss.


	8. Goodbye to the story

im sorry I am stoping this story for now I might continue the story in the future but right now I'm having writers block plus I'm making another story so for now I'm paying attention to the new story hopefully it will be up soon


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